by Jean Plaidy
“I do not understand, my lord. You must explain to me why it was necessary to murder thousands of Huguenots in cold blood.”
I was sorry for La Mothe. It is always a difficult task for ambassadors to try to find excuses for their masters. He flustered through his explanations, stressing the perfidy of the great Admiral de Coligny, who, we all knew, was one of the most saintly men living.
“If the Admiral was indeed guilty of treason could he not have been tried and brought to justice?” I asked. “Was it necessary to kill so many?”
“It was a grim accident. Orders were misinterpreted…”
I took pity on him. One should not blame ambassadors for their kings' misdemeanors.
The Council came to hear his explanations.
“Accidents! Mistakes!” they cried. “St Bartholomew's Eve will be remembered in the centuries to come as one of the greatest blots on the history of France.”
Burghley said: “It is the greatest crime since the Crucifixion.”
AFTER THE MASSACRE there was a strong determination among those about me to be rid of Mary Stuart.
The chief instigator of this was, oddly enough, Burghley. He was by no means a bloodthirsty man, but he was an ardent Protestant and it was such as he who had been particularly horrified by what had happened. I think in his heart he was terrified that if anything happened to me, Mary Stuart would take the throne and he dreaded to think to what terror the country could be brought under a rule of the Catholics. I could understand that. It was not so long ago that we had smelt the burning flesh in Smithfield.
I was the one who hesitated. I could not forget that she was my kinswoman—and, of course, she was royal. I was very like my grandfather who did not want to shed blood wantonly. He would kill though if he thought his throne was threatened. I had believed I would do the same; but somehow I could not condemn Mary Stuart to the scaffold.
Burghley pointed out that I had ample reason for doing so. Had she not written to Norfolk? Did she not join in the plan to kill me and set herself up in my place?
I knew this, but somehow I could not believe that Mary had really agreed willingly to my assassination. Why not? Had she not agreed to Darnley's?
It was Robert who came up with the idea that we should let others remove Mary for us. It was a devious plot and perhaps characteristic of Robert. It occurred to me that he was good at such plotting. Had he plotted thus for the removal of Amy Robsart and Lord Sheffield? I reproached myself for these thoughts. Now he was only thinking of my good as he assured me he did night and day. My welfare was his chief concern.
Burghley was so sure that as long as Mary Stuart lived, there would be a threat of conflict in the country that he supported Robert's rather bizarre scheme. The plan was that I should free Mary ostensibly on condition that she return to Scotland. There she would be in the hands of those two rogues, James Douglas, Earl of Morton, who had been one of Rizzio's murderers, and John Erskine, Earl of Marr, who had become Regent after the murders of Moray and Lennox—both of whom were as eager to see the end of her as I was. These two were to bring her to trial and find her guilty and her execution was to be immediate and to take place not more than four hours after she had been passed into their hands.
A secret mission then ensued and a certain Henry Killigrew, an ambassador who had already proved his worth, was sent to Scotland to try to come to some agreement with these two villainous gentlemen who, it seemed, were quite ready to betray their Queen, provided they could see enough advantage to themselves in doing do.
Burghley had said that it was Killigrew's task to make them see those advantages and to find out what their terms for carrying out this task would be.
The bargaining was sordid and I hated the whole business; and it was only the earnest warnings of both Burghley and Robert that made me go on with it.
It may have been that Marr had no great fear of Mary, seeing himself safe in a Protestant Scotland. John Knox the preacher—the type of man I loathed, a religious fanatic, cruel and intolerant—who hated Mary with a fierce fanaticism, was delighted to join in the plot to kill her.
Eventually Marr had been ready to make an agreement but he died before it could be put into action. It was rather strange—almost as though the saints to whom Mary prayed so frequently really were coming to her aid, for Morton was much harder to deal with and he would not give way. First he demanded a pension which should be as much as it had cost me to keep Mary as my prisoner in the castles of England. I was shocked. I hated to see money wasted for I believed that prosperity came through frugality. I spent money on my dresses—and I will admit I had a goodly array of them—but I always assured myself that they were necessary to the dignity of royalty. I kept good state at my Court; there was rich food and wine served at my table. Not that I ate with any gusto. I had the smallest of appetites, and I always drank my wine diluted with water. I respected money without hoarding it. I think I must have inherited that from my grandfather. People called him a miser but his ways had made a prosperous country, whereas my father's extravagance had left the exchequer sadly depleted. I had taken it upon myself to pay all the latter's debts, and they were heavy, but I did not want anyone to go without the money which was rightly his or hers. I also paid those debts left by my brother Edward. The people knew what I had done—particularly the people of London—and they honored me for it. My father had thought that the privilege of serving the Court was enough for them. I thought they should be paid as well.
I had achieved prosperity—as my grandfather had—by care and a lack of extravagance, except in those particulars which I considered necessary to preserve my image in my people's eyes. They knew this and one of the French emissaries had said that the people of London treated me with something like idolatry.
So now I balked at the thought of paying out so much money to that villain Morton across the Border. And his demands grew greater. He must have guessed how earnestly Burghley wanted the conclusion of this affair and for it to be carried out without leaving a stain on my character. Let Mary be brought to the block by her ungallant knights, he said. Then no one in England could be blamed and we could leave the matter to the barbarity of the Scots.
Then Morton came up with a condition which made the entire plot useless. He insisted that the execution could only take place if three thousand English soldiers under the command of the Earls of Bedford, Essex and Huntingdon were present.
When this ultimatum was delivered to us we knew that it was the end of the venture. The whole idea had been to execute her leaving me free from blame. Morton knew this. Was that why he suggested the presence of my soldiers?
“We are wasting our time,” I said. “Morton knows he has asked the impossible.”
Burghley nodded grimly. “God sent Your Majesty strength to preserve God's cause, your own life and the lives of millions of your subjects, all of which are manifestly in danger.” He added: “God be merciful to us all.”
I had to comfort Burghley. I shrugged danger aside and in my secret heart I was glad we had not been able to find those who would be ready to murder Mary Stuart.
IN SPITE OF the loathing the French Catholics aroused at this time not only in England but throughout the world, and the sure knowledge that my marriage with Alenon would be against the wishes of the people, I did keep up negotiations with Catherine de' Medici in secret.
She was an extremely clever and most devious woman and I never underestimated her for one moment. It surprised me that she should be so eager to see one of her sons take the crown of England that she still persevered in her efforts with the utmost zeal. Surely such a woman could see through my schemes. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she thought that I was as cynical as she was and cared nothing for the murdered Huguenots, not only in Paris but throughout the whole of France, for once started it seemed that the Catholics would not forgo their blood-letting.
However, La Mothe Fenelon presented himself with messages from the Queen Mother.
“Her Majesty wish
es Your Majesty to know that the cure is succeeding with Monsieur le Duc and his skin is improving every day.”
He was referring to Dr Penna who had claimed he had an elixir which could in time eradicate from the skin all traces of smallpox. His services had immediately been acquired by Catherine de' Medici who must have believed that her son's appearance was one of the impediments to the marriage.
“That is indeed good news,” I said. “If it is really effective I must have the man here to see what he can do for Lady Sidney.”
La Mothe was pleased. He believed that in spite of everything I was really considering the marriage. It was amazing that he could believe that when I had hesitated before the massacre, I would now agree.
We discussed the disaster of the smallpox which seemed more prevalent than it had a short while ago.
“I suppose our little Prince must count himself lucky to have come through with his life,” I said.
“Indeed, Your Majesty, and in the case of such a charming Prince, that small disability is forgotten when one is in his presence.”
“I suppose there are other parts of his visage to take the mind off the skin,” I said tartly. I was really all eagerness to see that little Prince with his debauched eyes and a nose which some said was split in two giving him a most grotesque appearance.
Perhaps I should have been a little more sympathetic for to be attacked by the smallpox is a terrible experience; and then when, a few days later, I began to feel unwell I remembered my words to La Mothe Fenelon, especially when in a short while the spots began to appear on my face and I knew that once again I had fallen a victim to the dreaded disease.
Robert came and insisted on entering my chamber. He threw himself onto his knees and declared his undying devotion. I smiled at him and said: “Robert, go from here. I would not have your handsome face wrecked by the smallpox.”
“I am here to serve you,” he said masterfully, “and here I remain.” And for once I did not remind him that I was the Queen who must be obeyed.
The Council was in a state of panic and I guessed they were all worried about the succession—the Protestants declaring that they would never have Mary; and while all the world was watchful, Spain and France were ready to pounce.
Strangely enough I did not feel ill this time. They say that if one has had a disease once one becomes immune. One catches the disease, but it passes over lightly; and this was what it did in my case.
Before long I was well enough to rise and when I studied my face I could not find a single blemish.
Another fortunate escape!
La Mothe Fenelon came to me and I joked: “It may well be that when Monsieur le Duc comes he will be a little disappointed. Perhaps he would like to see me with just a few blemishes so that he could find me in a state not entirely dissimilar to his own.”
“Nay, Your Majesty,” he replied. “Monsieur will rejoice in the preservation of your unsurpassed beauty. Moreover Penna's medicines are having such an effect on the Duc that when you see him you will find the rumors of his disfigurement greatly exaggerated.”
“That will give me the utmost pleasure,” I replied, and I added that perhaps the Duc would like to pay a visit to the English Court. I was amused to see that La Mothe was evasive about this and I guessed it was due to the fact that he feared that if I saw the ugly little creature before a proxy marriage there would never be one in actual fact.
Shortly after he came to announce the birth of a daughter to the King of France. La Mothe was having a very uncomfortable time in England for he could not defend the action of his masters, try as he might, loyal creature that he was; and there was shock throughout the country when the news broke that two supporters of Admiral de Coligny had been executed in the Place de Gréve, and that the King, Catherine de' Medici and other members of the royal family had witnessed the execution which had taken place precisely as the Queen was giving birth to a child.
I was determined to let La Mothe know that I disapproved heartily of the callous behavior of his King and the Queen Mother. It would help me with my bargaining and dealing with the wily Catherine de' Medici, and I must not miss one advantage.
“His Majesty could not have wished more for the safe delivery of his child than I do,” I said with diplomatic exaggeration. I went on to say with even more hypocrisy that I could have wished the Queen might have given birth to a dauphin, but I was sure he was very happy with the Princess. I regretted, of course, I added, that her royal father had polluted the day by so sad a spectacle and that he had gone to see it in the Place de Gréve.
La Mothe Fenelon, struggling to retain his loyalty to a cause which he must have found abhorrent, agreed that it was a day in which happiness was mingled with evil. “My master was forced to witness the executions to follow the example of his great ancestors on such occasions,” he replied.
I nodded gravely and added that the state of affairs in France did cause me some concern; and I was very distressed to see action taken against people who practiced my religion.
La Mothe bowed his head and said that out of his great friendship for me, his King would be happy if I would act as godmother to the newly born infant.
I accepted graciously as there could be no possibility of my going myself and I should have to send someone in my place which was usual in such circumstances.
I then discussed with Cecil who could be sent. The obvious choice was Lady Lennox, but I was certainly not going to send her. Who knew what plots she would become embroiled in with the serpentine Queen Mother of France? She was the grandmother of the little Prince James of Scotland and schemes were undoubtedly going round and round in that head of hers, concerning the little Prince and his mother.
We decided that our best emissary on this occasion was William Somerset, the Earl of Worcester. He was a Catholic but a man whom we could trust. So off he went with the font of gold which was my gift as the godmother of the child.
I was seeing Robert almost every day. He was sure that, after the massacre, I could not marry into the House of France. One day his hopes would be high, and he would see himself beside me on the throne; on another he would seem to understand that there could never be a marriage… either with him or with any other. I was past my fortieth birthday. What would be the point in marrying now? I could have Robert at my side whenever I wished. I was in complete command. Why should I want to change that? Of course I never would. But I did like the process of wooing; I loved to see hopes rise, and sometimes I even deceived myself into thinking that I might give way. Courtship was to me one of the most exciting games to play. It kept alive the myth that I was beautiful and desirable beyond any living woman. It was a pleasant dream to live in and while those about me played the parts with such zeal they gave reality to the dream.
I was amused by Robert's jealousy; and I did have a tendency to favor young and handsome men because I liked good-looking people. I could not bear deformity; consequently a young man who was personable, could dance well and converse with grace always attracted my attention, and as I liked to have such people about me, I gave them posts which would keep them there.
Naturally, there was no one like my Master of Horse, but I liked to keep even him guessing whether or not he might be ousted from my favor by some newcomer.
Christopher Hatton remained in favor; so did Heneage. There was one young man who was really very attractive; he danced beautifully and his conversation was witty. He was not a clever man like Cecil or Walsingham, my Moor, who was now in Paris getting restive there, wanting to come home to his family. But for the moment I could not allow that. Too much was going on in France and I needed my master diplomat to make sure my affairs were well looked after. But those two and others were my Clever Men. Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was in the charming favorites category.
I had noticed Edward de Vere since he was twelve years old. That was when his father died and young Edward had become the Earl of Oxford. Because of his youth, a guardian had been found for him, and he
had been put under the wardship of William Cecil; and as now and then I visited my chief minister, I saw the boy from time to time. Exceptionally handsome with a somewhat forceful personality, he caught my attention, and I expressed an interest in him from the first. He was a lively boy, wayward and reckless, and there was certain to be trouble where he was. When he was about seventeen he was involved in the death of one of the servants of the Cecil household—an undercook, I think. The man had offended him in some way and Oxford had hot-headedly run him through with his sword. The man had died and a great deal of manipulation was needed to extricate Oxford from serious trouble. Even noble earls were not permitted to murder the humblest servants. However, the jury was induced to bring in a verdict that the undercook had “run into the point of the Earl's sword”—thus making the verdict accidental death.
I daresay this was not good for my lord's character for he believed that he could act in whatsoever manner he wished and escape punishment.
A few days later he appeared at a special joust and so distinguished himself that I forgave him. He looked so handsome, so noble, as he faced his opponent; and he was romantically charming when he came to bow to me. He will think twice before he attacks his servants again, I tried to delude myself into believing.
The next event was his marriage to Cecil's daughter Anne. I suppose it was natural. They had been brought up in the same household and had grown very familiar with each other. I remarked to Cecil that it was the best basis for a happy marriage. I think Cecil was a little dubious, knowing the nature of the Earl, but I had no doubt that he was pleased to see his daughter marry into such a noble household.
Oxford was one of those young men who would always call attention to himself wherever he was and it was usually in the most outrageous manner. If only he had been content with his excellence at the joust and being a graceful addition to any social gathering! But he wanted to swagger on the stage at all times. He wanted all attention focused on him.
